~ Made in Ireland ~

Jean stood in the doorway, watching Frankie unpack the enormous holdall he had returned home with. It was so good to see him back in his old bedroom, safe and unharmed.

“So, is that you finished wi’ the Army fur guid, then, son?” she asked.

Frankie continued to haul bundles of clothes from the holdall and place them on the bed. “Aye, Maw,” he answered without looking at Jean. “I like the Army, don’t get me wrang. And I’ve made lots o’ great mates in it. But wan tour o’ duty in Northern Ireland wis enough fur me. They said I had done ma duty tae Queen an’ country, so I could leave efter that.”

Jean knew that wasn’t strictly true. A letter from the Army addressed to Frankie had arrived a few days earlier. She had steamed open the envelope and read the letter – well, any mother would, wouldn’t they? It was the Army’s official confirmation of Frankie’s discharge. The reason for the discharge wasn’t stated very clearly, but, reading between the lines, she gathered that her son had been deemed “unfit” for further Army service.

She wasn’t surprised, of course. Frankie had been the baby of the family. All the mollycoddling by her and the rest of the family had made him lazy. He was also the least bright of her four children, the slowest, the one who had always needed extra attention. That was her fault, she supposed, not having pushed Frankie at school like she had the others. She thought a spell in the Army would change him, make him more independent, more able to stand up for himself, more mature. But that just wasn’t to be.

The main thing now, though, she said to herself, is that he’s home safe. We’ll soon get him settled back into life here.

She had worried about Frankie from the day he had set foot in Northern Ireland. It was a murderous cauldron over there. Protestants killing Catholics. Catholics killing Protestants. And both sides killing the poor soldiers – young laddies, like Frankie – sent there to keep the peace. And the fact Frankie was a Roman Catholic himself made him even more vulnerable. Both she and Frankie’s father had warned him never to reveal his religion to anyone while he was there.

Frankie pulled out the last item from his holdall, a flat parcel in a clear cellophane wrapper. The words PURE IRISH LINEN were printed across the foot of the wrapper.

“I nearly forgot, Maw,” Frankie exclaimed, handing the parcel to Jean, “I got this present for you. I found them in a wee corner shop in Belfast. I just couldnae resist them.”

“Och, that’s very thoughtful of you, Frankie,” Jean smiled.

She could see through the cellophane that the parcel contained a set of folded, colourful tea towels. The predominant colour was orange. A horse’s head was also visible. But something jarred with her, something wasn’t quite right about that image.

She opened the wrapper, took out the first tea towel and unfolded it to reveal the full image: a red-coated figure astride a rearing, white stallion set against a background of bright orange. A banner below the figure proclaimed: WILLIAM, PRINCE OF ORANGE. Below that was a smaller banner, which declared: JULY, 1690.